Call Me By Your Name Book
Call Me By Your Name is a novel written by André Aciman that takes readers on an intimate journey through the idyllic landscapes of Italy. Set in the 1980s, the story follows the blossoming romance between Elio Perlman, a precocious seventeen-year-old, and Oliver, a charismatic graduate student who comes to stay with Elio’s family for the summer.
The novel beautifully captures the nuances of desire, longing, and the complexities of burgeoning emotions. Aciman’s prose is lyrical, evoking the heady atmosphere of an Italian summer, and delving deep into the inner workings of Elio’s heart and mind.
Call Me By Your Name Book by André Aciman
Contents
- Part 1 If Not Later, When?
- Part 2 Monet’s Berm
- Part 3 The San Clemente Syndrome
- Part 4 Ghost Spot
Call Me By Your Name Book Download
At dinner on his third evening, I sensed that he was staring at me as I was explaining Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, which I’d been transcribing. I was seventeen that year and, being the youngest at the table and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling as much information into the fewest possible words. I spoke fast, which gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my words. After I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware of the keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he was obviously interested—he liked me. It hadn’t been as difficult as all that, then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile and vitrified that bordered on cruelty.
It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days earlier on the abandoned train tracks, or when I’d explained to him that same afternoon that B. was the only town in Italy where the carriers, the regional bus line, carrying Christ, whisked by without ever stopping. He had immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to Carlo Levi’s book. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment held back.
He was going to be a difficult neighbor. Better stay away from him, I thought. To think that I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, his chest, his feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence—and his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like the miracle of the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring to find out why you couldn’t.
